In 1970 every teenager knew what the Beatles looked like, including Wendy Glomb, who happened to be walking her schnauzer when a long black limo pulled into our driveway. The only eyewitness to his arrival, she apparently sprinted home to inform her friends that George Harrison had chosen to celebrate Thanksgiving in Englewood, New Jersey.
My parents hadn’t told us who was coming for dinner. They were sure we would break their confidence. So until Thursday morning, the identities of our honored guests remained a mystery. (A third guest that evening was David Bromberg, a musician who would ultimately fall short of the stardom my father expected when he “discovered” him playing backup guitar for Jerry Jeff Walker for $25 a night.)
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My mother was practically drowning in her coffee from the handful of pharmaceuticals she took each day. She was never without her own brown bag of pot either. Her perpetually altered state from these drugs and from the cancer beating her down caused me embarrassment, shame, and humiliation, part of a barrage of feelings I couldn’t accept. There was nothing left of my mother that was normal.
My stomach’s empty, my clothes are all torn.
If you have money, we’re going to take it,
We’ll spend all your money just getting the nose wet,
